


as long as you love me so (let it snow)

by stupidsecretthings



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen RPF, Chef RPF
Genre: Brad/Claire Secret Santa 2019, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-01
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22060447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stupidsecretthings/pseuds/stupidsecretthings
Summary: it takes an unexpected snow storm, a food fight, and a power outage for claire to admit to herself that she’s in love with brad leone.(and for brad to admit that he loves her, too).
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	as long as you love me so (let it snow)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lightninginmyeyes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightninginmyeyes/gifts).

> hi friends! 
> 
> this is my secret santa gift for @lightninginmyeyes! i loved this prompt, and i can only hope you enjoy it (and forgive me for any mistakes!!) <3

The snow storm happened so quickly that nobody could possibly have anticipated it. 

There _were_ snow warnings out, of course, but they all warned of light snowfall that was unlikely to cause disruption, so everyone who had work to get done in the test kitchen made their way into work. Most of the people who only needed to be on the office floor that day opted to work from home, just in case (which, as it turns out, was a very good decision). 

One minute, Molly’s gushing to Carla by the windows about how pretty the snow looks, all soft, small flakes slowly falling in pirouettes down to the world below where they melt into sidewalks and roads. The next, the windows are eclipsed by a sheet white as the gentle snow explodes into the snow storm it will stay as for several hours. 

“Holy shit!”

And then the entire test kitchen is gathered around the windows, most of whom with their phones in hand, recording the event as they all collectively try to figure out if they can _actually_ see the street below or if they’re imagining they can see it because they know that it’s there. 

(They decide they’re imagining it, because the snow’s so thick they can’t even see the building in front of them, how the hell are they supposed to see 35 floors down?)

It isn’t until ten minutes after the snow becomes one seemingly solid sheet of white that anyone starts thinking logistically about how _anything_ is going to work. Carla, default _mom_ of the test kitchen, at least for the day, initiates the conversation with, “Wait… if the snow’s this bad won’t they be closing some streets? Or at least actively discouraging us from going to those places?”

  
Then Chris pitches in, “Yeah, you’re right! Plus, what about schools? There’s _no way_ they’re staying open through this.”

After this point, Carla and Chris huddle in a corner and start discussing the school system and the likelihood of them being able to pick their kids up in the event of a seemingly-inevitable closure (slim to none, the answer is _slim to none_, leaning closer to _none_ by the second, but they don’t know that yet). 

Molly starts worrying about Tuna at the mention of kids, and subsequently breaks away from the group to call her brother to check in on the dog. 

Everyone else is kind of at a loss. Do they… go home? Do they stay? 

(The song ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ springs into Claire’s mind, and while she tries to banish it from her thoughts, it sticks in her head for like… three hours after that). 

“Hey, Saffitz,” Brad sidles up behind her, and she jumps, having been lost in the song in her head. She whirls around, hand on chest, eyes wide, other hand ready to whack Brad for scaring her.

“Jesus Christ, Brad!” _Now_ she whacks him. “You scared the hell out of me!” 

Brad only laughs, blue eyes bright and happy and mischievous (as per usual, at least, when he’s around her). “Ah, sorry about that, Half-Sour, didn’t mean to scare ya.”

“You definitely did. And you’re definitely not sorry about it.”

“Believe whatcha want,” he returns, but the grin on his lips is one she can only describe as _cheeky_, and the wink he sends her way is irritating, endearing and telling in equal measure. 

If Claire’s blushing as hard as she thinks she is, Brad doesn’t mention it. 

“So,” he claps his hands, _loudly_, and Claire would be lying if she said it didn’t startle her (and she _knows_ Brad sees her shoulders jump slightly), “what’s your plan for this very snowy weather we’re having?”

Claire lets a sigh deflate her as she says, “I don’t know. My apartment is just… the worst place to live when there’s snow, so if they’re closing streets like Carla says, then there’s _no way_ I’m getting home.”

“You can always come to my place,” Brad offers, and while _that_ thought is certainly appealing, Claire knows that Brad hasn’t really thought it through. For many reasons, certainly not least the fact that they’ve been toeing the line of _whatever_ it is for practically years now, and taking up the offer would _definitely_ be crossing it— but also there’s the fact that:

“Brad… you think you’ll have better luck getting to _New Jersey_ in this weather than I will to my apartment?”

She watches the realisation dawn on his face, and has to chuckle at least a little bit when his jaw drops comically. “_Shit_! There’s no way the ferries are runnin’ in this.” 

“Exactly my point.”

Claire glances around the room, noting how everyone has split off into small groups and is conversing, completely distracted from their work (with very little chance of getting back on track with it, she thinks). Carla and Chris are still huddled together on the other side of the room, Carla saying something while Chris nods concernedly. Molly, having been assured that Tuna is okay, is discussing how pretty the snow looks again with Andy, who, instead of agreeing with her, is whining about how cold it’s going to be (to which, Molly teases that maybe he wouldn’t be so cold if he wore shirts that didn’t have holes in). Gaby, Sohla, and Christina are all stood by the walk-in, too far for Claire to be able to hear what they’re saying. 

Just as Brad opens his mouth to speak again, Alex Delany bursts through the doors of the test kitchen, seeming slightly out of breath (and, he really did _burst_ in, the door thwacking open with the force of the entrance). 

“Guys!” he exclaims, and every head in the test kitchen turns to face him. “Rapo just called, and he said that he _highly recommends_ staying in the building until the storm dies down, but he definitely said it as more of a command than anything else.” 

“What? He just wants us to stay here?” Molly looks just a little outraged at the prospect. 

“Uh-huh. He doesn’t think it’s safe.”

“Does he realise we’re fully grown adults and can make our own life decisions?” Claire pitches in, to which Brad raises an eyebrow, and leans even closer to her across the countertop.

“D’ya _want_ to head out in that weather, Saffitz? You said the weather was too cold for ya in _November_.”

Claire hits him for the second time in as many minutes. “Shut up, Brad,” she mutters, but there’s a hint of a smile playing on her lips that shows Brad he’s not pulled her pigtails _too_ much just yet. 

“He’s got a point,” Carla adds pensively, “I mean… there’s no way it’s safe to be out there right now, you probably wouldn’t be able to see your own hand the snow’s so thick.”

“Maybe we should all stay, at least until the snow dies down a bit,” Chris suggests, and is met with a collective murmur of agreement from everyone in the room. 

And that’s how the test kitchen decides to stay right where they are to wait out the storm (and, subsequently, how they got stuck there for far longer than they were expecting). 

As it turns out, the snow storm doesn’t let up like they thought it would. In fact, it appears to be getting worse the more time passes. 

By noon, everyone is a little antsy. They had tried, valiantly, to get back on track with their work, but to no avail. Molly looks bored out of her mind, with Andy stood nearby doing some stir-fry type thing for lunch with an equally uninterested in what he’s doing as Molly. Carla is sat in conversation with Sohla, Gaby and Christina, while Delany and Brad are similarly conversing nearby, although they seem much more animated than the girls, actively joking and ribbing with each other. Claire, for her part, is the only member of the kitchen who actually got back to work (less so out of commitment to her job and more so out of frustration, because _it just doesn’t make sense_ that this pastry isn’t working). 

Chris has progressed from being noticeably concerned, to pacing the length of the test kitchen over and over again. It’s driving Claire a little crazy, if she’s honest, because it’s all she can see from the corner of her eye, and her nerves are already more than a little frayed. 

Eventually, and she’s not proud of it, she snaps. “Chris, dammit, would you stand still?” Her voice is sharp and loud enough to carry across the kitchen, and everyone stops talking to turn towards Claire. She flushes. “Sorry. I just… I’m a little stressed.”

Carla steps towards Claire, setting a comforting hand on her arm. “I think we’re all a little stressed right now,” she says gently, “Maybe we should do something to take our minds off the storm?”

At this suggestion, Molly perks up instantly, her eyes lighting up and a smile already brewing. “Oh my God, guys, we should totes have a competition.”

Andy, ever the optimist (note the sarcasm), says, “Is that such a good idea?”

“Uh, _yeah_, it’s a good idea,” she defends emphatically, and then: “Seriously. Come _on_, we’ve gotta have fun somehow, it’s not like we can leave.”

Brad is the next to join the conversation, always a fountain of boundless energy and support when it seems like there is none. He claps his hands, smile on his face, as he adds, “Al-_right_ Molly! Comin’ up with a solution, I like it.” He walks over to Claire’s other side, where Carla isn’t, and playfully tugs her into a side hug, squeezing as he says over Claire’s disgruntled, half-hearted protests, “We’ll just have to watch out for this one. Competitive, I’m tellin’ ya. Shoulda seen her in Denver.”

“_Brad_,” she scolds in that whiny voice she only ever seems to have around him, “Would you shut up?”

(And her heart is beating _so_ fast, because she is so close to Brad Leone, so wrapped up in him that she can smell the woodsy scent that’s just so _Brad_, can feel the flex of the muscles in his arm when he squeezes her, and can’t ignore it. She wills her heart to slow down, wills the butterflies erupting in her stomach to stop, but it’s a futile effort because as much as she tells herself that she isn’t in love with Brad Leone, she’s _not_, she certainly, irrevocably _is_). 

Brad, of course, does not shut up. “Seriously, Half-Sour, you gon’ try and tell us that you ain’t competitive?” And he does that thing with his eyebrow again, where he raises it in question, but she has to look away because it makes his eyes so wide and so blue that she worries she’ll kiss the smug look right off his face if she doesn’t distract herself from it. 

(She’s not in love with him, not at all). 

“Well, no,” she grumbles, and then a weak, “but still…” and she can’t even finish the argument, brain still caught up in the fact that he’s still hugging her from the side, arm slung over her shoulder and keeping her tucked into him like that’s a _thing_ that they just _do_. 

“Okay!” Molly exclaims excitedly, taking a cue from Brad and clapping her hands as she does so. “It’s settled. TK bake off, let’s _go_.”

Sohla pitches in from the very front of the room, where the camera crew usually are, where she’s still stood with Christina and Gaby with, “I’m in. But only if we call it ‘The Test Kitchen Winter Olympics’.” She shrugs, as if to say, ‘I don’t make the rules’. 

Chris has noticeably calmed down (Claire has not— Brad has still not let go of her and she’s getting hot under her skin), and even he seems to be warming to the idea. “_Yes_, Sohla! I like that.” 

“I’m lovin’ this enthusiasm, Morocco,” Brad notes, and squeezes Claire again, and _Jesus Christ_ she thinks she’s about to combust.

“Yeah, Moroccs. Let’s get this par-tay started people,” Molly whoops, immediately starting to bustle around the kitchen collecting post-it notes and pens, then waving everyone over to stand around a station like they did before Making Perfect started shooting. 

“Hell yeah, I’m down for this,” Christina grins, grabbing a pen and some post-its from Molly and leaning forward on the station. Because the world allows Claire small mercies, Brad has to let her go to move towards the station Molly’s gathering everyone around. Claire stays stood stock-still for a second to get her bearings back, sucking in a few deep, centring breaths. 

She resolutely ignores the knowing, slightly-sympathetic look coming from Carla. 

She’s not in love with him. 

Together, the current residents of the test kitchen come up with various rounds for the TK Winter Olympics that test skills of speed, accuracy, and general flavour-profile ability (Andy objected to that one, because it’s subjective, but was promptly told by Molly to shut up, quasi-siblings that they are). Collectively, it is decided that there has to be at least a few rounds that are festive, despite Chris’ protests that, “Christmas is already over! It’s January.” Christina flicks a walnut at him and hushes him. 

Round 1 of the first part of the ‘Speed’ part of the competition sees all of the participants whipping cream. The slowest person to whip the cream enough that it can be held overhead will be eliminated, and therefore will not progress to Round 2. Brad comes first (to nobody’s surprise), then Molly and Chris almost simultaneously finish, followed quickly by Claire, Carla, Andy and Alex in quick succession, with Christina, Sohla, and Gaby finishing the latest. Gaby, tapped out — and blaming her height for the loss — pulls up a chair and a snack to watch the others participate in the second round. 

In this round, two people will be knocked out of the competition, so tensions are running high. 

Despite herself, Claire finds that she’s having _fun_.

  
She’s spent the past few months in a near constant state of stress and sleep deprivation, and she thinks that just letting loose because she doesn’t really have any other choice is the most liberating thing she’s ever done. The tight tension that drew her shoulders together is loosening slowly, the weight of the world falling away, leaving Claire feeling something that’s dangerously close to unbridled joy. 

She worries absently about what being in such a good mood could have on the depth of her feelings for the 6’4” gentle giant congratulating everyone on their win beside her (dangerously close), but she banishes the concern. It’ll be fine. (She’s not in love with him anyway). 

Round 2 sees them chopping carrots julienne. They each have ten carrots of similar shapes and sizes in front of them, along with a chefs knife, (“Yes, you must use a chefs knife”), and then must cut all ten carrots into the julienne shape to declare themselves finished. Gaby judges if someone is done. 

This time, Sohla finishes quickest, almost at the exact same time Carla finishes also, then Brad, Claire, Molly, Andy, Alex, with Chris and Christina just barely losing. 

“Ahh, the two Chris’,” Brad notes mischievously, knowing it would get on Chris’ nerves just slightly. Chris, for his part, just sticks his tongue out at Brad and joins Christina and Gaby off to the side. 

Round 3, with three people being eliminated, is a speed macedoine. This time, Andy, Delany and Sohla are the final three, which means that Brad, Claire, Molly and Carla are going into the fourth and final round. 

Round 4, because it’s the finale of the ‘Speed’ portion, has been declared to have to be something grand and festive, in keeping with the season (even though, as Chris maintains, it’s January already). Everyone but the four actually left participating get to decide what the remaining chefs make. To keep it a surprise, Brad, Claire, Molly and Carla are banished while the decision is being made. 

Once in a separate room, Claire allows herself to check on her finger, which she sliced during the last round. It’s not a deep cut, and it doesn’t hurt too badly, but she hasn’t cleaned or dressed it because she didn’t want to forfeit because of injury (competitive streak: one, claire: zero). As soon as Brad catches sight of Claire assessing her finger, he’s bounding to her side and concernedly grabbing hold of her wrist so he can get a closer look. 

“Ah, jeez, Half-Sour, wha’d’ja do?”

“I’m fine, Brad, I just nicked it when we were macedoining.” (Yes, Claire knows that isn’t a word, but she also knows that Brad _doesn’t_ know that, so she figures it’s fine). 

“And you didn’t even put a band-aid on it?” He ‘tsks’ her, dropping her wrist to go and find a first aid kit with a band-aid and some antiseptic. 

Brad cleaning the tiny slice on her finger is oddly intimate. He’s huddled very close to her, definitely closer than he needs to be, and he’s working in slow, deliberate, almost reverent movements. Claire finds her breath catches in her throat as Brad’s rough, calloused fingertips trail over her hand. Finally, he finishes his gentle wrapping the band-aid around her finger (it really, seriously, wasn’t that bad of a cut; she would’ve been just fine).

“There ya go, Saffitz,” Brad says, dropping her hand, and his voice is soft and low as he speaks. Claire thinks her heart is on the verge of beating right out of her chest. “All done.”

When Claire says, “Thanks, Brad,” it’s much breathier than she wants it to be, but in her defence, Brad is still crowded into her space, and she really doesn’t think she should be expected to form any coherent thoughts with him that close. After an eternity (ten seconds), Brad leaves, going to replace the first aid kit in its rightful spot. 

Carla’s giving Claire that look again, and Claire forces herself to turn away. 

She isn’t in love with Brad Leone. Nope. 

(Yep).

The decision comes back, and it has been decided that for the final round, they will be making gingerbread men. They have to make at least twelve gingerbread men, from scratch, and then bake and decorate them. The fastest wins, with the stipulations that each gingerbread man must have a face (two eyes _and_ a mouth, “no, Molly, you can’t just give it eyes”), they must be fully baked and they must be edible. 

“Piece of cake,” Brad proclaims, and despite the uneasy ground Claire’s felt she’s been on all day in regards to Brad, she can’t pass up this opportunity. 

“Actually…” she starts, elbowing him then looking up at him with mischief alight in her dark eyes, “It’s gingerbread. Not cake.”

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly. “Yeah, yeah, whatever Half-Sour. Semantacs.”

Claire’s head tilts like a confused puppy, (and she pretends she doesn’t see Brad’s fond smile when she does), “You mean… seman_tics_?” 

“Yeah, that’s what I said.”

“… uh-huh.”

As it turns out, speed making, baking, and decorating a dozen gingerbread men in competition with three professional chefs is very stressful. Who knew? 

By the time all four batches of cookies are in the oven, there’s flour just… everywhere. It almost looks as though they were trying to replicate the swirling snow storm outside in the test kitchen. Chris can only marvel at their ability to make such an extensive mess, truly, it’s impressive. 

One one station, there’s Brad and Claire, working around each other as seamlessly as they always do, and on the other, are Carla and Molly, who would be working around each other seamlessly if Molly hadn’t spilt like, five different things already. Carla’s handling it patiently (and far better than Claire knows she would), but the station is a mess, so neither has enough space to work. 

Eventually, as was inevitable, Carla accidentally knocks over a jar that has (had) powdered sugar in it, and when it falls, a dense cloud of sugar explodes towards Molly and settles over her clothes and hair. 

If you look at the situation close enough, then instigating a food fight isn’t _technically_ against the rules. 

Which is good because that’s exactly what Molly does. 

She picks up the jar, and throws the remaining sugar in Carla’s direction. Carla _tries_ to duck out of the way, but there was seriously no way she was going to be able to avoid _that_. Chris springs out of his seat almost instantly, trying to break it up before it begins, but he really stood no chance, not when the smile on Carla’s face is as mischievous and daring as it is. Carla, in the process of throwing excess flour at Molly, covers Chris in a thin layer of flour instead. 

  
There’s a collective laugh from the peanut gallery all gathered in the corner with Gaby, and, before Claire has fully processed what is going on, the kitchen has erupted into complete anarchy. 

She thinks she hears a bashful, insincere, “oops” from Carla, and then sees Christina, Sohla, Andy, and Delany all spring from their seats in tandem to join in on the fun. By the time people are starting to throw eggs (Andy. Andy is the ‘people’ that start the egg throwing.) the test kitchen is truly out of hand. 

There are various food items everywhere. After a brief period of complaint from Gaby about all the mess in _her_ kitchen, she has also joined the party, and Claire is just glad that at least _she_ had the wherewithal to turn all of the ovens off before they started a fire.

Claire manages to hold the moral high ground for all of thirty seconds, because as soon as Brad sneaks up behind her with a bag of flour in hand and absolutely zero good intentions, she really can’t be held accountable for her actions. 

She shrieks as flour rains down over her, turning with a yelp to see Brad looking mighty proud of himself. “Oh…” she taunts, “you are _so_ gonna get it now.” 

“All talk from where I’m standin’ Half-Sour,” he teases back. 

‘Anarchy’ doesn’t feel like a strong enough word to describe the test kitchen anymore. There are people ducking behind stations and strategically throwing fruit, Claire just watched a whole potato hit Brad square in the chest, there’s egg on most of the fridges in the room and there’s more flour on the floor than in bags at this point. 

After… far too long, the food fight begins to dwindle, until eventually, everyone is sprawled across the floor laughing and messy and breathless. 

“_That_ was fuckin’ nuts,” Delany comments, dissolving immediately into a fit of laughter.

“Yeah and who’s fault was _that_?” Carla ribs at Molly from her spot a few metres away from her. 

“Oh, totes mine. I take any and all credit for that. Most fun I’ve had all year,” Molly declares. 

“To be fair, we’re only like a week into the year Mols,” Sohla points out, and Christina laughs, reaching an arm in Sohla’s direction to show her agreement, presumably. 

Suddenly, Claire lets out a half-groan, half-laugh sound, and Brad reaches his arm towards her in question, too exhausted to use words still. Unlike Christina and Sohla, who didn’t even touch when Christina reached out, Brad’s arm ends up sprawled across Claire’s stomach (because _of course_ they’re that close together when there’s a whole kitchen surrounding them). 

“What’s up with you, Saffitz?” he asks, still a little breathless.  
  
And, nope, her heart doesn’t stutter in her chest _at all_. 

“This is gonna take so long to clean up.”

“Oh my god,” Chris laughs, “That’s the most Claire thing I’ve ever heard.”

Claire sits up half-heartedly to glare at Chris, “A lot of things are the most Claire thing you’ve ever heard.”

“Yeah, ‘cause you keep topping yourself, Claire.” 

Claire just rolls her eyes, huffs, and flops back down onto the floor. 

Brad’s arm is still sprawled across her stomach. 

Carla would be giving Claire that look right about now. 

After an _extensive_ clean up period, during which everyone pitched in to make some dinner — and the gingerbread men were abandoned, the Olympics remain unfinished — it’s almost 11pm, and it’s becoming increasingly more obvious that nobody’s going anywhere until tomorrow morning, at the earliest. 

They all decide to head up to the office floor to sleep, because there’s more couches there for them to sprawl across so they’ll at least find something reminiscent of comfort. 

There’s a conversation about who’s sleeping where when all the lights go off. Someone screams, Claire has her money on Christina, but most people let out some kind of startled gasp. Brad reaches towards where he knows Claire is; she feels his hands brush her shoulders. 

The generators kick back on in thirty seconds, and everyone looks around, almost as if they’re all checking everyone is still there once the lights are back (everyone is). Brad has definitely moved closer to Claire under the cover of the darkness. 

Delany pulls out his phone to check his emails, and sure enough, there’s a group email from Conde Nast informing everyone left in the building that the power had cut out across that section of the city, and that while there are generators, they’re having to conserve the power in them, and so there’s no heating.

Almost as soon as Delany announces that, the room collectively shivers. “We’re going to die of hypothermia,” Andy states. 

“You’ll be fine Baraghani,” Chris scoffs, “You’ve got all that muscle as insulation.”

Somehow, and truly, Claire has no idea how it happens, she ends up in one of the smaller offices with two couches and Brad. It’s going to be a definite lesson in self-control.

It’s midnight, now, and Claire won’t admit it, but she’s _freezing_. The huge windows cool the rooms down a considerable amount, and although Brad and Claire’s office doesn’t have a window directly to the outside, she’s still shivering possibly more than she ever has. 

  
Her coat is still in the test kitchen, and she’s way too exhausted to go down and get it, but she’s starting to resign herself to doing so when Brad, from where he’s finishing up lighting their allocation of candles (ten, because they found enough for everyone to have five each, with four spare, but they went to the people sleeping in the bigger offices), turns to see Claire shaking, her thin sweater wrapped as tightly around her as she can get it to go. 

“Christ, Claire!” he exclaims, but quietly, because it’s late and he has _some_ control over the volume of his voice. (About the same amount as the control Claire has over her emotions which is… not much). “You’re freezing!”

“I’m fine, Brad,” she protests, but it’s half-hearted as best, because she’s so tired, in general, and of pretending she’s _not_ in love with Brad who’s stood in front of her like a beacon of warmth, and she is freezing. The steady stream of alcohol she’s been consuming since 7pm is helping her mind trip and fall into a happy, easy haze.

“You ain’t fine, Claire, you’re shaking like a fuckin’ leaf over there, Jesus.” 

And then Brad’s pushing the couches together, and then he’s laying down, and then he’s tugging her into his arms and she goes easily, without protest or complaint. Brad’s warm and hard and soft all at once and she fits perfectly against him. 

His arm wraps around her middle, pulls her closer, his huge hand splayed across her side.She sighs, sleep starting to claim her faster the greedier than it has in months, all the stresses of gourmet makes disasters and PR nightmares and a book tour or whatever banished from her head. All she has room for is Brad.

And it’s bliss. 

“Night, Claire,” Brad murmurs, and if she were more awake, she’d feel the feather-light kiss he presses into her hair. 

She drifts off to sleep, allowing herself just this night with Brad, before reality comes crashing down over her like an avalanche tomorrow morning. 

Sure enough, tomorrow morning arrives all to quickly. Claire’s eyes flicker open, and for a second she’s confused and disoriented because— is she staring at a poster for the Hot 10? 

Yes. She is. 

As the world slowly starts filtering in to Claire’s consciousness (she really, desperately needs some coffee), she notices that the heavy weight around her midsection is not a duvet, and the steady stream of warmth from behind her isn’t her imagination. 

It’s Brad Leone. 

  
His body is curled around hers, pulling her close, his breaths coming out in puffs against her neck, and she is far too sober to even think about the hard length of him pressed against her. She’s far too sober for any of this to be happening right now. 

  
She’s _cuddling_ with Brad Leone.

While Claire’s trying to extricate herself from his hold without waking him up, he stirs, lets go, rolls over, and, because the universe isn’t totally against her, stays asleep. Claire lets out a deep, existential breath as she stands up, straightens her sleep-rumpled clothes and admires how peaceful Brad looks when he’s sleeping. 

She shakes herself out of it, and leaves the room, joining the rest of the people who are awake and have gathered in the main office area, spread out across tables and cubicles. 

She notes, with some degree of relief (and bizarrely, disappointment) that the snow outside has stopped falling completely. Alex Delany is sat beside Christina Chaey as they discuss the fact that they technically have the all-clear to go. 

“We can leave?” Claire asks, joining in the conversation. 

Delany nods, “Yep, got the email from the boss man himself about a half hour ago. Says as long as we’re responsible, we can probably make it back to our apartments. Public transport’s still down though.” 

Christina chortles, “As long as we’re _responsible_? Has Rapo met us before? Just yesterday we were having a food fight in his test kitchen.”

“Ah, ah,” Gaby scolds playfully, “_my_ test kitchen.”

“Too right!” Molly says seriously, then chuckles. 

Three hours, and a group breakfast later, almost everyone is bundled up and preparing to tackle the snow in order to get home. Somehow, and no, Claire doesn’t know how (but suspects it’s Carla and Chris’ doing), Claire has ended up with accepting Brad as a refugee since there’s no way in hell he can get back to New Jersey. 

Brad and Claire walk towards Claire’s apartment huddled abnormally close to one another (it’s for warmth, okay?). Claire’s arm is looped through Brad’s and their gloved hands brush with every other step. They fall into an easy conversation, just like they always do, because Claire may be helplessly in love with the man, but above all else, he’s her best friend and she’ll be damned if she can’t talk to him.

They rib at each other, laughing and joking as they pretend they’re not freezing the whole way to Claire’s place. When they reach Claire’s block, a soft, slow, steady stream of snow starts falling from the sky, much like it was yesterday morning before it became the snow storm that’s left snow almost up to Claire’s knees in its wake. 

But it doesn’t progress further than that, remains slow and soft and peaceful, glittering as the sun hits it on the way down. 

They reach her building, and Claire’s delighted to be able to get inside to where she has blankets and candles and can warm up a little bit, when Brad tugging on her arm pulls her to an abrupt stop. 

“Brad, what—”

He shushes her. “Just… lemme speak a minute, okay, Half-Sour. Just… just nod.” 

“Okay,” she mumbles, confused but stunned by the serious, but vulnerable, expression on Brad’s face. He gives her a look. “Oh, sorry, no speaking.” 

Brad huffs dramatically, lets out an exasperated, “Jesus Christ, Claire!” and Claire cracks an affectionate smile, is about to speak, but stops herself, and nods instead. 

He grins. “Good. So, we… we both know I’m not, uh, not the best with the ole words. But I’m gonna try.” He sucks in a deep, deep breath, then meets her dark eyes with bright, blue sparkling ones and it’s all so much she wants desperately to look away before she does something stupid like cry or kiss him or tell him she loves him, but she can’t. 

“Right, so. I, uh… Claire, you—”

And he huffs, frustration knitting his brow. He looks momentarily up to the heavens, soft snowflakes landing across his nose and cheeks, and he looks straight out of a Hallmark movie that she wants them to be the stars of an almost embarrassing amount. 

She thinks she may just get her wish, especially when Brad looks down at her with that same look in his eyes that she carries for him in hers, especially when he mutters, “Oh, fuck it.”   
  
Especially when he drags her closer, heedless of her stumble through the thick snow, and draws her lips to his. 

He kisses her deeply, with such devotion and adoration and reverence. He kisses her slowly as though he’s scared she might break, as though he’s scared she’s not real, and she clutches his coat as tight as she can for the same reason. 

Claire barely registers the kiss is happening by the time it’s over. 

“How was that?” Brad whispers, snowflakes catching on his eyelashes as his eyes glimmer with hope and raw emotion. 

She smiles, happiness swelling so immensely inside of her that she thinks she may explode but she doesn’t care, because this would be a hell of a way to go. 

“Good,” she murmurs back, and Brad’s arm tightens around her waist.

“D’ya think you’d wanna do it again maybe?”

“I think I’d like to do even more than that.”

They kiss again, both freezing cold but boiling hot all at once. Brad mumbles ‘I love you’ against her lips and she doesn’t even realise she’s crying until Brad brings a hand to her face to wipe the stray tears away. 

“I love you too,” she presses into his skin. And it’s perfect. 

They head up the stairs to Claire’s apartment, find those blankets she wanted so desperately earlier, and hole themselves away in her bedroom until Monday… for warmth. Totally. 

And she’s so in love with him. 

(But he’s pretty in love with her, too, so she’s not scared to admit in anymore. In fact, it’s one of her very favourite things). 

They head back into the test kitchen the Wednesday after, arriving at the same time, and Brad doesn’t even have be in the test kitchen that day. 

Carla gives Claire a knowing, delighted look. 

A year later, it snows at Brad and Claire’s wedding. 

(There’s no Winter Olympics — although that does become a tradition around Christmas time, sans food fight — nobody throws any eggs, and Brad tells he loves her with snowflakes caught in his eyelashes).

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you had a happy holidays and i wish you all the best of new years! 
> 
> here's to hoping it's a goodun! 
> 
> mwah, love ya.


End file.
